Narcissus Pseudonarcissus
by TheSpectacledBlonde
Summary: Roleplay-turned-fanfiction with a very, very good angst writer. Sherlock returns for John, and after all this time, can he tell John how he feels? Rated T for swearing and not really much else. Post-Reichenbach.


_I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. –SH_

_Stop that, Mycroft. Not funny. –JW_

_It's not Mycroft, it's Sherlock. I'm not dead, John. –SH_

_No, you are, and I'm crazy. Shit. –JW_

_You're not crazy, John. It really is me. What do I have to do to prove it to you? –SH_

_What were our first words to each other? –JW_

_Afghanistan of Iraq? –SH_

_And before that? –JW_

_I asked if I could borrow your phone. And before that, you walked in and said, "Bit different from my day." It is me, John. –SH_

_Jesus Christ. –JW_

_I know this is a shock, and that you must be very angry, but I must assure you that it was for your own safety. –SH_

_My safety, my arse! Why didn't you bloody tell me? –JW_

_I just couldn't. I am so sorry I couldn't tell you, John. Truly, I am. –SH_

_Why couldn't you have? I fucking hate you. –JW_

_I don't know what to say. I'm sorry, John. You would have been killed if I didn't leave, and I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I were responsible for the death of my only friend. –SH_

_Killed? What are you on about, you madman? –JW_

_Moriarty. He had a sniper on you when I called you on top of Bart's. You would have died. And you had to go on believing I was dead until I took out the last of his web. –SH_

_I still hate you. –JW_

_I can't tell you how sorry I am. What if I told you I was standing at the door to the flat right now? –SH_

_I'd… are you standing there? –JW_

_Yes. Also, I hope you like daffodils. –SH_

_You… Jesus, Sherlock, why did you get flowers? –JW_

_Isn't that something people do to apologize to people they care about? –SH_

_Oh my God. You crazy bastard. I love you. –JW_

_Bollocks. –JW_

_Ah, is it too late to add "platonically?" –JW_

_Very, very late. Open the door for me? –SH_

_Gladly. –JW_

"Hello, John," Sherlock says as the door swings open and reveals a dumbstruck and exhausted-looking blogger standing in the doorframe. "Long time, no see."

"Too bloody right, long time, no see!" Sherlock's got little time to deduce the events and hardships of the past months before John's wrapped him in a hug so tight he can hardly breathe. "Glad you're home, maniac." Sherlock gasps a bit, then gives a choked laugh. "I missed you, John. I'm sorry," grabbing tight to him and breathing his scent. Still the same John. After all this time.

After a long time like that, on the doorstep to 221B with their arms around each other, Sherlock gently nudges the side of John's head with his nose. "You're crushing the flowers," he says, sounding putout, and John releases him immediately. Fluffing them as best as he can, Sherlock hands the partly smashed, but nonetheless fragrant daffodils to John.

"I decided roses were too cliché, and these were... bright," he mumbles awkwardly, hands in his coat pockets. "I hope these can make up for my absence even a little.."

"They can't," John says matter-of-factly, and Sherlock sobers, looking at him with eyes that look so damned crushed, as though he was a puppy John had kicked. "But," he continues, "you being back can. You're staying this time, yeah?" Sherlock looks up, a glimmer of the Holmes equivalent of happiness shining in his eyes. "I don't plan on leaving again anytime soon. And thank you for not, um. Hating me."

"You're welcome," John laughs, stepping up a stair above Sherlock and using the added height to ruffle the detective's already-unkempt hair. "Come on in, then, it's still your flat as much as mine, you must know that." Sherlock snorts when the shorter man reaches up to play with his hair. "Yes. We have some catching up to do," he said, stepping into the building and mounting the steps up to their flat. "So, have you had very much luck with a woman?" Sherlock asks as he steps into the room. It was different- there were cardboard boxes in the corner, no doubt all of his things.

"None in the slightest," John says cheerfully. "There was one for a bit but then she figured out who I was, saw your blog, saw my blog, saw our articles, and wrote me off as Camp Gay. Even in death you ruined my relationships, Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah," Sherlock comments, "I'm sorry about that," though he isn't in the slightest. He spins round to face John, who is puttering about, looking for a vase for the slightly wilted yellow flowers. "I, um.. I missed you," he half-mutters, looking away. John blinks, slightly surprised at the detective's admission. "I...well, you know I missed you too, Sherlock. Figured it was too much to hope you'd think of me while you were off... doing whatever you were doing, though. That is, once you helpfully informed me you were still alive."

"Oh?" Sherlock looks at John with a bemused expression. "You thought I would forget about you? My dear Watson, you were the only thing I could thing about," he says before he can even process what he's just said. He coughs, slightly embarrassed. "I mean, ah, what I meant was that I wouldn't forget you, John. I don't delete the things that matter." John's turned pink while Sherlock's been speaking, and it's not lost on Sherlock, who turns away, pretending to cough more. "That's sweet of you," John says. Oh, God, this is just getting worse and worse.

Sherlock stops coughing for a minute when he feels his chest throb... interestingly, and in an aching way that he wants to go away, but doesn't. It's vaguely disconcerting. "John." He speaks seriously. "What does a heart attack feel like?"

"Um, probably something like dropping dead. Why, are you having one?" John snorts, finally finding a vase for the daffodils. "Don't go turning into a hypochondriac on me."

"Um. I just," he stutters, "My-my chest feels... Odd. In the middle." His face betrays concern. Ever the doctor, John immediately drops everything and comes over to Sherlock, feeling his head for a fever and then telling him to point to where it hurts. Sherlock unhelpfully gestures to his entire chest area, and John glares. "Here, give me your hand," John sighs, reaching for and grabbing his wrist anyways and slipping his fingers along the underside of his wrist until he can feel his pulse. Sherlock turns his head away, but he realizes that his body is betraying him at the same time that John does; the rush he gets from the touch is poorly disguised from his wrist, and Sherlock tugs it away from the doctor, stepping back a bit and biting a lip, refusing to look at him.

"Oh," John says, quietly realizing. His head swims. "You know, Sherlock, erm, it's perfectly normal to be attracted to people," he starts awkwardly before Sherlock casts him a glance that betrays worry and- what is that? Fear? John doesn't know what of.

"Not for me," Sherlock says, casting his eyes at the floor. "I'm not...I don't...I'm not supposed to care about people. You saw where it got me with Moriarty. You saw better than anyone else."

John shudders at the thought. "But now you're here, Sherlock. With me. And you're going to be okay," he says gently, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder. "You're allowed to care for people, Sherlock. It's part of life." Sherlock's eyes dart to the floor and then to the ceiling and then to John, and then, quick as a flash, he leans in and kisses him roughly. He pulls away after only a second, hand over his mouth as though he's afraid he's done something wrong, backing away from the ex-army doctor, eyes wide.

John gasps in surprise when Sherlock kisses him, the detective's (impressively soft) lips hitting his and pulling away in an instant. "Oh," is all he says. Not in a bad way. John moves closer. "Sherlock," he begins, pulling Sherlock's hand away from his (suddenly very beautiful) mouth, "I have to tell you something."

"No, you don't! Of course I've already read it on you," Sherlock says impatiently. "But look, John, don't get...attached, okay? Don't. That was a mistake. I'd be bad for you. I'm not going to give up a case for you and I won't retire and you'll spend too many nights alone when I can't sleep and you can try to make me dinner but I won't eat it and I won't remember our anniversary if we have one and oh, God, John, I'd be so terrible for you, you can't want me. You just...you can't." John shakes his head. "God. You are so thick sometimes. I know all that already. You never ate my cooking, you always forgot my birthday, and I've already spent so many nights without you. As long as I can have you here, with me, for _any_ amount of time, it's worth it. Loving.. Loving you will always be worth it."

To John's immeasurable surprise, Sherlock buries his face in his hands and begins to cry quietly. His eyes widen, scared that he's said something wrong. "No, you haven't," Sherlock says, peeking through his fingers and deducing the question out of the doctor. "I don't know what I've done to deserve to meet you, John."

John's face softens, and he moves closer and pulls Sherlock's spidery fingers away from his face. "Sherlock Holmes," he breathes, wiping the tears from his cheeks, "You've done absolutely nothing to deserve me, but you never needed to. I am so, so lucky to have met you. You saved my life, and you enriched it. Having you as a flatmate has made all the difference in the world, and I can't think of anyone in the whole galaxy who I would prefer to have as a flatmate over you. I don't love you, Sherlock. I adore you."

"Really and truly?" Sherlock asks, blinking slowly, tears catching in his eyelashes. John nods, putting his hands on either side of his detective's face.

"Really and truly," he says, and then pulls Sherlock down the necessary inches to reach his mouth. "Adore," he repeats, staring into the blue-green eyes before he kisses him, a proper one this time, and oh, Jesus this feels so...very...right. Sherlock places his hand on John's shoulder to steady himself. His mind whirls and he is slowly enveloped in the warm, soft, aftershave-y-ness of John as the weathered doctor deepens the kiss. They breathe in unison, and for a perfect, ageless moment, nothing is wrong, and nothing matters. Nothing but the feeling of John in his arms, and on his lips and slipping into the cracks of his heart and filling them up with warm light. He's perfect. And Sherlock is head over heels.

When he opens his eyes, just briefly, just for a very tiny moment, Sherlock sees dust motes, a zillion of them all at once twirling in the strips of light that come from the window that faces the street, and he's..._so..._happy. So happy he thinks that he could very likely explode with the reality of it all.

And then he closes them again, and everything is John and the new data streaming into Sherlock's mind, about how good it feels when he tilts his head just miniscule degrees to the right, information about John's dentition and the fact that he's not shaved in two days, about how goddamned wonderful he feels with his head tilted downward and John's craned upward and clever hands stroking through his hair.

When John breaks apart to gasp for air, he's mildly disappointed with himself for not having a better lung capacity. But then he looks at Sherlock and stops thinking. His arms go up and his fingers lace together behind his shoulders and he pulls Sherlock in to him, pressing his face in the hollow of his throat. "Thank you for coming back. It.. It means a lot," he whimpers slightly, starting to finally dissolve into tears. He weeps into Sherlock's neck, gasping out words of thanks and whispers of profound love between sobs.

Sherlock holds the man as he cries, heart tight with joy and guilt in equal parts, for he is pleased that he is able to do this, able to pull John against his chest and let him stay there, and yet he is guilty because he realizes the tears are his fault. However pragmatic and rational the reason for leaving, it does not lessen the pain he has inflicted on the only person he truly cares about.

He thumbs and kisses away John's tears as John had for him and they stare at each other in utter wonder. "I know," says Sherlock, breaking into a radiant grin. "I know."

John does nothing. He just breathes quietly and smiles and stares and smiles wider and goes up on his toes for one more peck on his detective's - _his_ detective's narrow cheek.

"Now, how about that dinner?"


End file.
